


Blameless

by sensitivebore



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-01-22
Packaged: 2017-11-26 11:19:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/649973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sensitivebore/pseuds/sensitivebore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carson and Hughes, and where the blame lies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blameless

"That's fine, Mrs. Hughes, fine, but do you know what I'm tired of? I'm tired of you vilifying me, making me out — making me into some unfeeling bastard who doesn't think, doesn't care. Did you ever —"

She's flinched back a bit, is watching him with surprise, with apprehension. He's never sounded this angry before, not with her; she had thought it would go as it always went. She'd point out the error of his ways, he'd make some awkward small gesture of apology, and they'd go on from there. But he's lashing out, pushing back. It's the last thing she expected when she met him in the library, encountered him as she was choosing a new book for herself. He swallows hard, steps closer to her, closes the gap between their bodies so he can bend his neck, lower his voice. His words are just as angry but at least lower now, he isn't speaking in that thundering crack that comes so naturally to him.

"Did you ever stop and think for one moment that I'm trying to protect us? Trying to protect our jobs? To — to prevent anything from happening that you might regret? That we might? Don't." His tone sharpens as her eyes widen with hurt, as her color rises. "Don't make that into some slight, some insult, because if you'd think for a moment you'd know it's not. I — do you really think I feel nothing for you? After all this time, all these evenings, do you really think that I don't have my own — sentiments about — you? Us? Christ."

She clutches the book she has chosen (a Virginia Woolf story) to her chest, blinks hard. Gropes for words. If she's honest, really honest, she hasn't thought about what he feels. Has been too focused on what she feels, on what she's not getting, on what she may or may not want. If she's fair, which she doesn't want to be right now, she hasn't really considered him at all. Just put it all down to his sometimes obtuse nature, his sometimes careless habits of speech. But now he's here and angry and the air around him is almost crackling with restraint and she's not sure what to say. She should probably, maybe, for once, apologize. God knows she's made him do it enough but the words stop in her throat, strangle there. He takes her silence as a lack of response and continues.

"If you'd stop blaming me for one bloody minute and instead see what's actually there, you'd note that I've only ever tried to protect you. To protect us. What would you have us do? Marry? Lose our jobs? Or just carry on an illicit affair and be my mistress, be the type of woman that steals into a man's room at night for — you know what for, and possibly risk being caught? Do you fail to remember what you did to Ethel? You threw her out of this house without so much as a reference because you caught her doing just that. And you stand here blaming me because I won't treat you exactly the same as he treated her." Carson squares his shoulders, compulsively straightens his cuffs, checks his cuff-links for a secure clasp. He's angrier than he's been in a very long time, and at her of all people. He thought if anyone could see past the pomp and ceremony of their station, of this house, it would be her. That she would understand his coldness earlier was nothing but a facade, nothing but a bad attempt at pressing someone back before they step into traffic. God, he's standing too close to her now, much less then. That's the trouble, she's too damn much all the time. He has to keep the boundaries up, the walls, because she'll take him apart, piece by piece, if he's not careful.

If he lets her.

She'll bring him to his knees with her satin skin and her ocean eyes and that delicious smell that hangs around her, she'll break him with the way she breathes.

If he's not careful, so very careful.

He's never meant to hurt her, not even once, but nor can he let himself hurt her by taking what he wants from her, taking what he's wanted since the first day she arrived at this house, full of spirit and sharp-tongued and brooking no nonsense from anyone. His other half, the piece of the puzzle that was missing. She had clicked into place as if she'd always been there and he has to stray just a bit, just a little and he'll fall to bits in her lovely hands.

Unwillingly, he lowers his face again, and he's so close to her, his mouth is so close to her pretty lips and she parts them and he should leave but he can't, not yet, can't force himself to walk out on her, to turn his back, so he pushes his luck.

"So tell me, Mrs. Hughes, what would you have us do, since I apparently can't do anything right? Tell me, then, you tell me what to do, since you know so much."

She feels a rush of guilt, shame, filling her chest and she should apologize to him, take her words back, tell him she understands. She does understand, she gets it now, but she still doesn't like it and really isn't that the whole point? She hadn't thought about it because she didn't like the answers she found when she thought too much, she wanted to assume he felt nothing, that he was being obtuse and stupid about it because she could deal with that. She could deal with simple thoughtlessness; she cannot deal, will not accept, this tortured existence of wanting him, of knowing that he wants her, and being locked away from one another because of what they are. Because of that aspect of their lives that seems to control every other element. Elsie simply cannot accept that kind of unfairness. She swallows hard, licks her lips, lets them part a little wider as she watches his eyes, watches how they are fixed on her mouth, feels his hot rush of breath, and he is close, so close to her and what would she have him do?

"Just — would the world really end, Mr. Carson, over just one kiss?"

She raises one hand, lets it rest ever so lightly against his chest, tentatively strokes the fine material of his shirt.

He looks at her fingers, at her mouth, tips her chin up with one hand, holds her fast where she is, only an inch or so away. Carson lowers his mouth and their lips are just barely brushing and she gasps but he is not kissing her and he is holding her back so she can't press, can't deepen the contact and she struggles in his hands and he keeps her still and he is torturing her with it, tormenting her, at one point his tongue touches the tender inner flesh of her bottom lip and she can't bite back a plea, a desperate little cry of need.

Without drawing back, he asks her, lets his lips feather over hers, and his voice is harsh.

"Would you spend day after day like this, then? Just like this? Because that's what one kiss would be, that's just what it would be. We'd spend every waking hour just like this. Could you bear that? Because, Mrs. Hughes, I could not."

This is dangerous, and he needs to get away from her, so he pushes her back, careful to keep his hands gentle, loving. With one last measured look, he leaves the library, leaves her there with her thoughts, her remorse.

Tells himself that it's for the best. Tries to swallow back his want of that one coveted kiss. Tries to silence his need to hear his own name whispered in the dark, spilled from her lips, torn from her body.

Tries to just carry on as usual.


End file.
